


Alternate Boston

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-14
Updated: 2006-03-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Malcolm has a headache. He finds it a maddening experience. (06/21/2005)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Little to nothing to do with Boston.  


* * *

Malcolm followed the small group up the path, enjoying the night as they strolled through a garden on the way to the evening's reception. It had been a while since he'd been planet-side, and, although the air here on Adva felt different from that of Earth, some of the scents were similar. He took a deep breath in, enjoying the sweet, slightly spicy odours of the flowers they were passing. He reached out a hand and touched one of the blossoms, surprised to find it soft, almost velvety. Raising his fingers to his nose, he inhaled the sweet scent the bloom had left there, and smiled. Then he sneezed.

Trip, walking beside him, said, "Bless you."

One of the Advarian guides assigned to their group frowned in his direction. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"Sorry, yes," he replied, smiling slightly. "Allergies."

The guide nodded solemnly and turned to Trip. "And what is the meaning of, 'Bless' in this instance?"

As Trip launched into an explanation of sneezing and its customary responses, Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck, allowing himself to fall slightly behind the rest of the group. He'd had a headache since this morning, and it seemed that the flowers down here might be beginning to aggravate his allergies, making it worse.

Actually, he realised, he'd had a headache for the past few days, even prior to their arrival on Adva. It had simply been at such a low level that he hadn't really paid it attention. Until now. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. The pain was only just building to the point of annoyance; and he with neither an analgesic nor an antihistamine. Well done, he thought sarcastically.

He thought he saw a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision—ahead, near a structure that they were approaching. When he looked straight at it, though, there was nothing, the front of the building well illuminated by the garden lights.

Brilliant, he thought. Visual disturbances. Perhaps he was working up to a migraine. He sighed aloud, and Trip glanced back in his direction. Malcolm smiled to show that all was well, then looked ahead of Trip to the rest of the party. Captain Archer was just ahead, speaking with the planetary leaders; followed by the mess of the planetary counsel, their security, and some of the members of Enterprise's security team.

Malcolm took a moment to observe the Advarians. So far, they'd been an interesting enough people, humanoid, roughly similar in size and shape to humans, albeit slightly taller and stouter. Oh, and of course, with one large, swirling horn that pierced through their hair, standing tall on the tops of their heads.

Malcolm stopped a moment to roll an errant sleeve up another twist. All of the Enterprise crewmembers here on Adva had been given ceremonial clothes for this reception. His, a dark grey tunic and black pants, were surprisingly comfortable, if a bit big, obviously having been made to fit Advarians, not Humans. He looked ahead to where Trip was walking, still speaking with the guide. Trip was wearing the same, although since he was taller, the clothing appeared to fit him a bit better. Malcolm sneezed again and, lacking another option, rubbed his nose, surreptitiously, against his sleeve. Then he took several quick steps to catch Trip and the others ahead of him.

As he approached, Trip pointed an old structure out to the guide, one of several that they'd passed on their walk. Malcolm looked in its direction. The building was lovely, small, with a series of sensuous curves along the front, although it was obvious that it hadn't been used in decades: the arched windows were boarded up, and there was only a blank, crumbling opening where the door may once have been. He caught up to the pair, catching the guide in mid-explanation.

"...ghost tunnels connecting from this building," the guide said, laughing slightly. "I've heard rumours of phantom stations underground, the remnants of our old transport system that no longer exist, but can sometimes be seen. Some people even say that there are still people down there, spectres that can only occasionally be glimpsed, and then only if you know how to look." He smiled apologetically when his mobile communication device chirped, and they continued up the path as he stopped to answer it.

"I'd really like to see the inside of that building," Trip said, nodding in its direction as they began to walk past it.

"Perhaps later," Malcolm replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose again, his headache now a constant, dull pain.

"You okay?" Trip asked, his concern clear in his eyes.

"Yes," said Malcolm. When he saw Trip's disbelieving expression, he smiled a bit. "I have a headache." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, I thought I was covering well."

Malcolm saw movement near the building again, so he turned fully in that direction, watching the scene carefully, his eyes panning from one side of the structure to the other. Nothing. Then, as he looked again at the door, he saw a woman there, Advarian, dressed in old clothing, torn and filthy. Their gazes locked. Her eyes widening in shock, she quickly stepped back through the doorway into the dark building.

Malcolm took several quick, cautious steps in her direction. As he approached the door, she stepped out again.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, her eyes moving past him to take in the group on the path. "You need to go back to your group." She reached out and gave him a gentle push on the chest.

Malcolm felt a strong hand on his arm, and opened his eyes to see Trip's worried face. Malcolm looked around him in a panic—he was back on the path. He looked over towards the building—there was no one there. He heard Trip say something, but he didn't catch it in his confusion.

Trip shook his arm. "Are you okay?" he asked, now looking alarmed.

"I was just over there," Malcolm said, pointing towards the building. "There was a woman."

Trip looked back over his shoulder towards the building, then to Malcolm. "You've been here the whole time." He looked carefully at Malcolm. "You just kind of zoned out there for a minute."

Malcolm nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"You should go back to the ship."

Malcolm gave Trip a fake smile. "No, I'll be fine."

"No," Trip replied in a firm voice. "Something's definitely wrong. You're going back."

As Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, Trip interrupted. "No. You have a headache, and," he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "I think you might be seeing things. Whatever this is, it's not good."

"Trip," Malcolm got out. "I'm not..."

"If I have to make it an order, I will," Trip said uncomfortably.

Malcolm stared at his friend, then nodded.

Trip said, "Let's go tell the captain."

"Fine," Malcolm said with a sigh, following Trip as they entered the building where the reception was to be held. Before they could reach the captain, they passed through the swirl and fuss of security just inside the door.

At least they ran a tight ship, the Advarians, he thought as he stepped past the final guard, Trip directly in front of him. As they entered the large, well-appointed foyer, he tapped Trip on the shoulder. "I'm just going to find the gents," he said. Trip looked at him vaguely, then nodded.

Malcolm stepped up to the guide they'd been speaking with earlier. "Can you tell me where the toilet is?" he asked. The guide simply stood there, staring straight ahead of him. Malcolm touched his arm and the man turned to him, surprised.

"Sorry, sir. Can I help you?"

Malcolm spied the room in question over the guide's shoulder and, making his apologies, stepped away and entered. After making use of the facilities, he stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. He did look tired, he thought. He rubbed the back of his neck. The headache was still there, but he wasn't seeing things now. Although the woman had been there...He grimaced. At least, he didn't think that he'd been hallucinating. Not that he'd know, of course. He splashed some of the cool water on his face, trying to get hold of himself.

Leaving the room, he peered through the small crowd, then, seeing Trip talking to the captain, stepped to his side. When his friend didn't acknowledge him, he touched his arm. "Trip."

Trip turned to him. He blinked, as if he was trying to focus. Then a polite smile came across his face. "I'm sorry, have we met?"


	2. Chapter 2

"What?" Malcolm asked, confused.

Before Trip could reply, one of the security guards approached them. "Sir, may I see some identification?" he asked, pulling Malcolm slightly away from the crowd.

Malcolm looked from the guard, to Trip, then to the Captain. Another guard stepped towards them, and started to lead Trip and Archer away.

The first guard asked him, "How'd you get past security?"

"I'm supposed to be here, I'm from Enterprise," he said, his voice strained. Something was really, really wrong here. He looked to Trip and saw his friend watching him warily. Raising his voice, he directed his question to Trip, "Is this some sort of joke?" He watched in amazement as a guard said something to the captain, and his friends turned away.

"Listen," Malcolm said to the guard. "I'm from Enterprise." When the guard didn't respond, he continued. "I'm Human, can't you see..."

The guard squinted at him, as if trying to see him more clearly. Then he blinked, and said, "I'm sorry, sir. Can I help you?"

Malcolm stared at him in amazement. Then he watched as the guard turned away, seeming to forget about him entirely. Malcolm backed away, staring around him as he moved. He bumped into someone and turned with a quick, "Sorry," only to see the guide from earlier peering at him intently.

"Sir, this is a private party. Are you supposed to be here?"

"We've met," Malcolm said, his voice shaking slightly. "I'm from Enterprise."

The guide looked at him sharply. "I think not, sir," he said, then turned and waved to a security guard.

Malcolm closed his eyes a moment. Not again, he thought. This can't be happening. He brushed past the man and ran out the door, back into the garden. Looking for a place where he could take a second and get his bearings, he saw the building where the woman had been, and darted inside.

He leant back against the cool, damp stone wall, and stared into the darkened interior, trying to catch his breath. He heard something in the darkness, to his right, and turned in that direction. She was there, illuminated in the light coming in from the doorway. He pushed away from the wall, his hand automatically moving towards his weapon before he remembered that it wasn't there—they'd been asked to leave weapons behind for their visit.

"I'm sorry," she said. She took a step towards him. "I thought this might happen. When I realised that you could see me, I thought..." She paused, and frowned. "I figured I'd best wait, just in case."

"Who are you?" he asked, moving from fear to anger. "What's going on?"

"You're no one to them," she said sadly. "It happens, sometimes, when people can see."

"See what?"

"See me, or others like me." She shrugged. "No one knows why. Just, all of a sudden, people you knew, family—they'll see you in the street and walk right past you. Most times, they don't even see you." She laughed, but it wasn't a joyful sound. "If you grab them, force them, then they'll see you, but it doesn't matter, because they don't know you. It's like you've become a ghost."

"But..."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

He shook his head. "How?" he asked, his voice trailing away as his anger dissipated.

"I'm not sure how it works."

"I don't belong here. I'm from Enterprise..."

"I know," she said. "You don't belong here. None of us did, when it happened to us. But you can't go back. Even if you try, it won't work. You're no one."

He heard voices, and then people rushing by the building. One set of footsteps stopped, and he saw the beams of torches as someone looked in, the lights flashing across his body, and that of the woman, clearly illuminating each of them. Then the torch switched off, and he heard the searcher move away.

"See?" she said. "They don't even see you unless you walk right up to them and force them."

Malcolm nodded, remembering the scene in the building, the guide, and Trip...He turned away from her.

He heard her soft whisper from behind him. "I'm sorry."

He stepped through the door, needing some air, a moment to clear his head, to compose himself. As he stood there, security rushed directly by him, almost brushing his arm they were so close. They had to have seen him, he thought. How could they not?

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on," she said. "I know a place where you can sleep for the night."

"At least tell me your name," he said in resignation.

"Malla."


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm followed Malla as she led him to the back of the building and through a low opening in the wall. He bent to enter, then stood in a small space at the top of a series of stone steps. She began her descent, her light bouncing from the smooth grey walls, and he followed her down, his footfalls echoing in the tight space.

Reaching the bottom, he shivered against the sudden damp and cold. He stood there and took in his surroundings in the dim light coming in through the overhead windows. He let out a soft gasp when he realised the size of the place.

"Amazing, isn't it?" she said. "And people don't even realise that this place is here."

Malcolm shook his head. The space was enormous, at least the size of Paddington Station in London. The cavernous room was fairly dark, the long, narrow windows along the walls letting in what little of the night's moonlight they could. How could he have not seen this building from above?

Malla's torch illuminated the area just around them, bouncing off the nearest walls, fading into the ceiling high above. He could see that the walls were dripping with phosphorescent, water and other substances leaching out of the seams between the masonry blocks and setting up a faint glow.

Malla started walking towards a dark, arched opening in a nearby wall. "We shouldn't stay here," she shot back over her shoulder. "It's not always safe."

Malcolm strode to her side. "Why?"

"Monsters," she replied in an eerie tone, her voice echoing in the empty room. Then, seeing his face, she became serious, saying, "Most down here are good people, but there are some who aren't. It's better not to be alone." With that, she stepped into the tunnel.

He entered behind her, his foot immediately splashing into a puddle on the floor, soaking his shoe. He could hear dripping, smell the overwhelming damp as he entered the space, and the temperature immediately plunged. He shivered, and tucked his hands up under the sleeves of his tunic. The clothing they'd given him for the banquet obviously wasn't designed for such a damp, cold environment.

"Where are we going?" he asked, stopping a brief moment and shaking his wet foot.

Malla kept moving, but turned to face him, walking backwards. "To a place that's safe. There are others like us." She gave him a wry smile. "We tend to find each other." She stopped. "Not everyone down here is healthy." She tapped her head with a finger. "So we band together, help each other, defend ourselves if we have to."

She turned, and they both began walking again. At the end of the tunnel, she led him up another staircase, this one metal and dripping with moisture. At the top, she opened a dark, heavy door, and there was a sudden rush of warmth, light and voices. They stepped up onto what must have once been a transit platform, the tile walls now covered in graffiti. There was a small fire blazing in the middle of the space, a dozen or so Advarians gathered around it, all dressed similarly to Malla, their clothing showing signs of long wear.

As they entered, the voices stopped. Malcolm felt eyes on him as Malla said, "He's okay. I found him upstairs." Then, sadly, she said, "He's new."

Several in the crowd nodded, and one man stepped forward, handing him a mug with a soft, "Here you go."

Malcolm nodded, accepting the offering and cradling the warm cup between his cold hands. He took a sip of the drink, trying to bring some of its warmth inside his chilled body. It wasn't bad, kind of weak, perhaps some sort of soup, he thought.

Malla, beside him, said, "I'll introduce you around in the morning, get you set up now."

Knowing that she probably wanted to talk about him with the others, he agreed. She led him to the back of the room, where small spaces had been formed with fabric, cardboard, and plastic sheeting, creating tiny warrens with some modicum of privacy. She showed him to one small space, pulling back a sheet to show that it had already been laid out with linen, none to clean. "We might have some food tomorrow," she said with a shrug.

"Thanks," he replied. Quickly, she pointed out the facilities, then moved off. He settled himself on top of the fabric that was to be his bed, and drew the curtain, cutting off the stares of the others from across the room. He needed some time alone, to think through everything that had happened tonight.

He noticed a tiny shard tucked into the back corner of the shelter—a mirror, or something quite like it. He flopped onto his stomach and, reaching out, pulled the mirror closer. Staring into the glass, he moved it around until he could see most of his face: same dark hair, same grey eyes—same Malcolm Reed. Tucking the mirror back into its nook, he finished the drink, then rolled onto his back. Too wound up to sleep, he pulled several of the rags and coverings across him, shivering slightly. Despite the fire out front, the room was still somewhat damp, the fire too small and far away, and the blankets in the shelter weren't quite enough for warmth. He stared up at the grimy fabric that made up his roof, and allowed his mind to drift, his eyes tracing patterns across the fabric as he thought about what had happened to him, and how he might get his life back.

* * *

Malcolm woke in the morning, stiff from lying on the hard floor. He stretched cautiously, throwing off the blankets, and left his shelter, moving towards the facilities. When he was done, he saw Malla at the fire, eating, and he approached her, nodding to others as he passed them.

"Want some?" Malla asked as he sat beside her, lifting her plate in his direction.

"No, thank you," he said, too nervous to eat, and, at the same time, not wanting to take the last of her meal.

"You should." She shook the plate slightly. "We don't always have much. You should eat while we have it."

Accepting her offering, he took a bite, then asked, "All the people down here are Altarian?"

She nodded. "Now, but in the past, there was a Denobulan."

"What happened to him?"

"He, well, he got sick, and he died." She grimaced. "You're using his shelter."

"Oh," was all he could think to say. Taking a few more bites, he handed the plate back to her so she could share the meal. "Anyone ever make it back to their former lives?" he asked.

She shot him a sharp look. "Not successfully."

"So people have tried."

She laughed bitterly, setting the now-empty plate aside. "All the time. Of course they do. But doesn't usually work out for them."

"In what way?"

"Well, just showing up obviously won't work," she said with sarcasm. "As you've seen for yourself. They either don't notice you, or don't recognise you."

"So, what have people done?"

Malla frowned. "There are ways to connect, to re-enter, but it's not a good way to go."

"Why not?" Malcolm asked, feeling a spark of hope despite her obvious pessimism.

"It doesn't usually work out," she said. "Life up there's usually changed; you've changed. You can't just go back and fit in comfortably." She looked around the room, her eyes resting on several other people. "Others have tried." She shook her head.

"Not much can have changed yet," he said. "It's only been a day."

"That doesn't matter," she replied. "Time doesn't flow quite..." she let her voice fall off, and shrugged.

"Have you never tried, yourself?"

She gave him a slight smile. "Life up there was not that great for me. I have nothing to go back to, really."

He nodded in understanding. "I want to try," he said.

Hesitantly, Malla said, "I know someone who may be able to help you." She leaned forward. "There's a way to sort of ping the outside world," she said, touching her index fingers together briefly. "To make a connection, which allows you to go back." She gazed at him, intense. "You need to know that this won't necessarily be pleasant. Once you get back up there, if it even works, your life won't be the same."

Malcolm nodded, thinking of his ship, and the friends he'd made on board. It had taken him so long to get comfortable. He wasn't willing to give that up without a fight; whatever risk there was, it would be worth it, if he could go home again.

She stood and approached a man across the room, exchanging a few words. Malcolm watched as the man nodded, peered at him, then approached.

"I'm Rodos. Come with me," he said gruffly, leading Malcolm into one of the slightly larger shelters. As Rodos closed the fabric at the opening, making a small, private room, he waved for Malcolm to sit. Rodos joined him, facing him, their knees touching in the cramped space.

"Don't speak," Rodos said. "Just try to focus on your breathing, keeping it as even as you can."

He took one of Malcolm's hands in one of his own and turned it, palm up. With his other hand, he reached to his side and opened a small, dark box. Withdrawing a tiny cake, he rubbed one finger across its top, then rubbed that finger in a small circle on Malcolm's palm, leaving a trace of blue.

Malcolm felt the substance cool his hand, and took in the scent—almost rosemary, but earthier. Then his hand became numb, and he flinched. The man grasped his hand more firmly, casting him a sharp look.

After a moment, Malcolm felt a kind of lethargy overcome him, but he found that he didn't care. His arms became heavy, and his head fell forward. He gazed down at his palm, then took a deep breath. He looked up at the man and blinked languidly.

Rodos pulled a tiny knife out from the box and pricked Malcolm's palm in the middle of the blue, allowing a bit of blood to well. He then used his fingers to mix that blood into the blue salve, and Malcolm felt a slow heat begin to build in the middle of his palm. The man started chanting, and reached his free hand to the box, removing a small bag. He took out a pinch of black powder. Breaking from his chant, he said, "Breathe in."

Malcolm did so, and the man blew the powder in his face. Malcolm felt it burn his nose as it entered. Then the shelter spun around him.

* * *

Malcolm rolled over onto his side, pushing away the blankets. His entire body aching, he slowly brought himself to sitting. He swayed slightly and exhaled loudly, realising that he was back in his own shelter, and he had no idea how he'd gotten there, or how much time had passed.

Rodos poked his head through the curtained door. "You all right?" he asked. At Malcolm's answering nod, he said, "Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't. It may take a while, or you may know soon." He gave Malcolm an odd smile. "Good luck, kid." He let the curtain close.


	4. Chapter 4

As Malcolm walked up the near-deserted street, he luxuriated in the feel of the warm sun on his back. It was the first time he'd been really, truly warm since he'd gone underground with Malla the day before, and the sense of warmth, plus his hope that Rodos' "connection" had worked, had served to brighten his mood considerably. He certainly felt better than he had just after Rodos' odd ceremony.

He began to hear noise: voices, music, movement. Malla, walking beside him with some others from the group, said, "We're almost there."

They had come outside to attend a make-shift market, where they were hoping to trade goods and services for things needed. Malcolm was attending for—actually, for no reason, really; for the company, perhaps, and the chance to help the group if he could.

As they rounded the corner, he took in the bustle of people, all dressed, like Malla and the others, in old, torn clothing, most rather dirty looking. He cast a glance down at himself. He was still fairly clean—if he stayed longer, he expected that would change. At this point, all it did was mark him as "new". He decided to be cautious.

Stalls had been set up beside the road, running along both sides of a central, grassy median, and the place was packed with people trading. Some of the stalls seemed quite formal affairs, with tents or cloths strung up over tables, while others were as simple as objects strewn on the ground, a shopkeeper sitting beside them. Despite the activity of the market, the people in the vehicles on the road paid them no mind, as if they weren't there at all.

Ah, that's right, thought Malcolm, reminding himself. They probably can't see us. Or don't.

As they moved through the market, brushing past fellow shoppers, it began to rain; a slow drizzle that quickly turned to a downpour. Malla lead the group to a grassy area on the median under a small shelter, although action continued around them despite the rainfall. Malcolm sat on a low wall, listening to Malla and the others discuss the things they'd look for, and what they were willing to trade.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm stilled, listening carefully. He was sure he heard someone calling his name.

The shout came again. "Malcolm!"

Trip's voice, coming from across the street. Malcolm stood, peering over the heads of the crowd, over the vehicular traffic, and stepped away from the shelter, the rain wetting his hair, his shoulders.

He frowned—Trip wasn't there. Maybe in his hope, he was hearing things, he thought. He continued staring in that direction, the rain now soaking him. He heard a soft voice from his side, Malla asking, "What's wrong?"

He turned to her, shaking his head. "I thought I heard..." His voice caught, and he gasped. Malla was gone, the rain, the market, was gone. Instead, he was standing on the empty median in the middle of a road, vehicular traffic rushing by on both sides. It was sunny, and the sudden brightness made him squint. His head whipped around, taking in his surroundings, then he looked down at himself. His clothing, which had just been clean, was now filthy. He looked at his hands, also filthy.

Suddenly he felt ill, nauseated, the headache he hadn't realised had gone now back in a rush. God, it was...his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees on the grass.

He heard a shout, "Malcolm!" and he looked up, dizzy with the sudden movement. He saw Trip dart across the street towards him, cautious of traffic, but casting worried glances in his direction.

And Malcolm was standing in the market, the rain dripping down his neck, soaking through his tunic. He looked down at himself.

And he was on his knees on the grass, Trip kneeling in front of him, talking to him, his voice low and even. Trip was looking at him intensely, like he was trying to get his attention. Head pounding, squinting against the too-bright sunlight, Malcolm looked down at himself again. He was ragged, dirty, still wearing the clothing he'd been given for the ceremony. He looked up again, into Trip's now- frantic face.

"Where have you been?" Trip asked. "We've been looking all over for you. Even sensors..."

Malcolm shook his head, trying to ward off the confusion. Vehicles were rushing around them, and Trip was saying...something, he'd lost track. And it was too sunny, and he didn't know where he was, or what...he moved his eyes to the ground, trying to focus, to settle himself. He stared at the grass below him, and sank back on his heels to allow his hand to reach it. He plucked a few blades, then realised that Trip was still talking to him, so he looked up. "You didn't recognise me," he said, surprised to hear his voice so raspy.

Trip had stopped speaking when Malcolm began. Then he replied, seeming confused. "When I went through security and turned around for you, you were gone. What happened?"

Malcolm just stared at him.

"We've been looking for you," Trip said. "Where have you been?"

Malcolm shook his head, then winced as the movement worsened his headache. "No, I was there, I...You didn't recognise me. I was no one to you."

"Malcolm, I think you're sick," Trip said carefully, as if he was trying to calm a frightened child.

Malcolm felt a sudden chill, and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. "I have a headache," he said quietly.

Trip reached out a hand, and Malcolm looked down to see Malla's hand on his arm. He looked at her, shaking as the rain began to chill him. He shook his head, the pain gone. "I think I'm going mad."

"Why?" she answered.

"My friend was just here. I..."

Malcolm felt a tug on his arm, raising him to standing, and the pain was back.

"Who are you talking to?" Trip asked.

Malcolm froze, unable to respond in his fright and confusion.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked, staring into his eyes. "We need to get you to the shuttle, back to Enterprise." He gave Malcolm's arm a gentle tug, but Malcolm remained rooted. Then, in a strong voice, Trip said, "Malcolm, come on."

Malcolm exhaled, suddenly realising that he'd been holding his breath. He stumbled forward, allowing Trip to guide him. "Something's wrong," he whispered.

"I don't think you're nuts," Malla said, the rain streaming in rivulets down her horn. "I think that, maybe, the contact is working."

They were walking, Trip casting frightened looks in his direction. He realised that Trip thought that he'd gone mad, completely barmy. Fabulous, he thought. This is what they meant when they'd said that his life wouldn't be the same. Unable to help himself, he grinned. You can go back, but you come back crazy.

Malcolm looked away from Malla, taking in the activity of the market around them. "Something's wrong."

She leant towards him, and whispered. "You knew that it would be hard, that things will have changed."

He nodded. "I know."

Malcolm found himself in the shuttle, sitting on a bench in the back, his legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He was rocking slightly and he realised that he was humming. He tried to place the tune, then laughed, smacking his hand over his mouth to stifle it, but not before Trip, in the copilot's chair, turned back to him with a sharp look.

"Sorry," Malcolm said from under his hand. Unable to help it, he smiled, then laughed again. Then he winced against the headache.

Trip cast a concerned glance at Travis, who was piloting. Then he unstrapped himself and squatted in front of Malcolm. "What are you laughing at?"

"Realised what I was singing," Malcolm said. He hummed, then started the song, his voice showing more enthusiasm than art. "Cures you whisper make no sense, drift gently into mental illness." He looked at Trip, smiling broadly. "Appropriate, yes?"

Malla leant in and kissed his cheek. "Be careful," she whispered.

Trip was beside him on the bench. When had Trip moved? His friend said something.

"Hmm? Sorry?" Malcolm said, disoriented, closing his eyes against the pain.

"What are you seeing?"

"No one, nothing," he replied, not really able to focus on what Trip was saying. "I have a headache."

Trip reached over and, very gently, began to rub the back of Malcolm's neck. Malcolm sank into the touch, drifting. He was so tired, and his head hurt so much.

"I keep seeing things," he whispered, not entirely sure if he was referring to Malla, or to Trip.


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm found himself lying on a bed in sickbay, the pain in his head gone. He sighed in relief, grateful for Phlox and his drugs, although he didn't remember the treatment itself. In fact, he didn't remember moving from the shuttle to sickbay.

It's fine, it doesn't matter, he thought, trying to control his building anxiety. I'm on Enterprise, and that has to be good. He turned onto his side, glimpsing himself as he rolled. He was in theatre whites—when had he undressed? He looked at his hands, now clean—when had he washed? How long had he been here?

He was missing time.

He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, tamp down his anxiety. As he focused, he heard voices from across the room. First Phlox, his voice almost too quiet to hear, saying something about "hallucinations." Malcolm's eyes snapped open. He saw Trip and Phlox standing near the sickbay doors, and he clearly heard Trip's response, his friend obviously alarmed.

"I thought this type of mental illness was easily treatable."

Phlox nodded. "Yes, usually, but..." The doctor glanced in his direction and, noticing Malcolm staring at them, stopped talking. He directed his next comment to Malcolm. "Good to see you awake, Lieutenant," he said more loudly. "How are you feeling?"

Malcolm heard the buzz of the marketplace, and the sounds of falling rain. He found himself sitting on the low wall, under the shelter, completely drenched. He was staring out at the downpour. Turning to his right, he saw Malla there.

"Am I still here?" he asked.

"So far," she replied, patting his arm. "Don't worry; it's only been a few minutes." She smiled at him gently. "It's okay, I'll wait with you."

Malcolm found himself sitting on the biobed, Phlox's face in front of him. The doctor was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for an answer.

Malcolm blinked against the bright lights, unsettled to find himself sitting. "Sorry?"

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm not sure." Looking over Phlox's shoulder, he spied Trip there, in uniform, his expression one of concern.

Malcolm shivered. "Cold, wet," he said softly. He looked around him, watching people pass in the marketplace, buying things, darting under tents as they tried to keep dry. "I haven't been able to get warm since I got here."

Malla nodded from her seat beside him. "I know. Although earlier the sun was nice."

Trip's voice came from nearby and Malcolm looked in that direction. His friend was now wearing civilian clothes, obviously off-duty, and he was talking to Phlox.

"Sometimes he seems so lucid," Trip said to Phlox. "Then he'll..."

"I'm not mad," Malcolm said, interrupting them in a soft voice. "I'm just, I'm not certain of where I am."

Trip turned to him. "You're on Enterprise."

"Time's passing oddly here," Malcolm replied. "Bits are missing."

Trip looked nervously at Phlox. "You're gonna be fine."

"I'm not fine," Malcolm said, his voice rising. "Time's gone wrong, and I'm not sure where I am." He dropped his voice to a tense whisper. "I'm afraid all this," he waved his hand around him, "is in my head."

"It's not," Trip said quickly.

"How can I know that?" Malcolm replied, his voice cracking. "Which one is real? This place, or the other?"

"You're becoming agitated," said Phlox.

"Wouldn't you be?" Malcolm replied, practically shouting. He tried to catch his breath, to calm himself, but he couldn't, he...

He saw Phlox come at him, a hypo in hand, and he jumped up from the bed. He took several steps backwards, watching as Phlox stopped moving towards him. Slowly, saying something that he couldn't catch, the doctor put the hypo down on a nearby table. Malcolm looked at Trip, over Phlox's shoulder, and saw the alarm in his friend's eyes. Then he watched his friend speak, his mouth moving, his words having no meaning, and then...

There was the sound of rain, and he felt the water coming down, drenching him.

His back hit the wall.

He watched as Trip looked to Phlox, who nodded, and then Trip began a slow approach towards Malcolm. Once standing in front of him, Trip began talking again. Malcolm tried to make sense of what he was saying, and finally caught up when Trip said, "...be all right, no one is here to hurt you."

"I think I'm seeing things," Malcolm said. "Are you really here?"

Trip nodded.

Malcolm whispered, "Is it raining?"

"No," Trip replied, also whispering. "You're on Enterprise."

"I thought that seemed a bit odd," Malcolm said with a choked laugh. "They said it would be hard coming back." He let himself slide down the wall, then sat, hunched over his knees, head down. "I'm not sure what's real."

Trip squatted down in front of him, and he heard Trip's voice. "You're sick."

Malcolm nodded. "I heard you speaking." He looked up at Trip. "You think I'm mad, hallucinating."

Trip frowned. "Maybe something like that. You caught a bug down on the surface. Phlox said that it triggered all this."

"Hell of a bug," Malcolm said, smiling slightly "When does Phlox think I'll be better?"

Trip tried to smile, but failed. "He's not sure. The meds seem to have knocked out the bug, but..."

"How long have I been back?"

"Four days."

Malcolm, surprised, asked, "How long was I gone?"

"About two weeks."

Malcolm sat there, numb. Almost three weeks, lost. It didn't seem possible. Taking a deep breath, he finally said, "Didn't seem that long. A couple days, just."

Trip looked clearly upset, and he reached forward and grabbed Malcolm's arm. "We'll help you get better."

"I'm sorry," Malcolm whispered, looking away from his friend.

Trip shifted and sat beside him, sliding an arm around his shoulders. "It's not your fault," he said.

Malcolm glanced up at Trip, and saw Malla there, beside him on the wall. "They think I'm crazy," he said.

She nodded. "Maybe you are." Then she smiled, and he laughed.

Malcolm felt a nudge at his shoulder.

Trip was peering at him intently, his eyes filled with worry. "Who are you talking to?"

"Malla, she's..." Malcolm shook his head. "It seems so real, when I'm there, but now..." he looked away from Trip, taking in the sickbay around them. "I'm confused. I'm not sure."

Trip, one arm still across his shoulders, took his hand and squeezed. "This is real," Trip said, shaking his hand gently. "I'm real."

Malcolm smiled. "I know you're real. I'm just not always certain about the rest of it."

* * *

Malcolm was sitting on his bed in sickbay, simply staring off into space, thinking. His head was certainly clearer today—Phlox's drugs were working wonders, it seemed. And the visions, if that's what they were, were gone. He smiled to himself. It had been days since he'd seen Malla, been to that other place.

He heard a noise and looked in that direction, seeing nothing that could have caused it. He shifted nervously on the bed. Despite Phlox's treatments, he still wasn't feeling certain that everything was as it should be. He felt edgy, anxious, slightly over-sensitive to everything around him, and he wasn't always sure of himself, of what he was seeing.

Sometimes he thought he was hearing rain, or would feel a chill despite the warmth of sickbay. At times, if he listened hard, he could hear the bustle of he marketplace. He shook his head violently, trying to clear his thoughts.

He wondered if he was still there. Maybe Malla was still sitting there, next to him.

Someone stepped beside his bed and he jumped, half-expecting to see Malla. It was Trip, so he smiled. Trip started speaking, and Malcolm stared at his friend, realising that he had no idea what Trip was saying.

Malcolm sighed. It wasn't that unusual. Since he'd gotten back, he'd occasionally have times like this, where he'd have trouble following what was going on, or understanding what people were saying. He calmly watched Trip as his friend spoke, and smiled slightly. It was strange what one could become used to.

He watched as Trip settled himself in the chair by his bedside. Even with everything that had happened, he was glad that he'd come back; if for nothing else, than for this: for friends who'd stay at his side even if he'd gone mad, who'd sit there and hold a conversation with him, even if he didn't have enough sanity left to participate.

* * *

Malcolm stood at the sink in his lavatory, staring at his reflection in the mirror above it. It was his first day out of sickbay—Phlox had finally released him, although he was off-duty for the foreseeable future.

Since he'd been back on Enterprise, his visions had gradually faded, and were now gone. He shook his head. Visions, he thought. He still wasn't sure if that was the best term—they'd seemed real at the time, just as real as being here. But now, looking back, it all seemed so dream-like, and Phlox had said...

He stared into his own eyes, taking in his appearance: gaunt, pale, eyes shadowed. He seemed haunted. He splashed water on his face and looked away.

He felt his stomach rumble and glanced at the clock. Dinner in the mess had begun well over an hour ago, but he'd been avoiding it. He had to admit, he was too embarrassed to go out and face everyone, after all this. He wasn't even sure what they knew, what they'd seen; what he'd done, or said, whilst...He wiped his face with his towel, tossing it back onto the rack. Damn it, he was hungry, but he couldn't walk in there alone. That'd be a bit too much.

His door chimed and he looked at it in surprise. Striding to it, he triggered it open, revealing Trip there, in uniform. Malcolm glanced down at himself self-consciously. Although he was in casual clothes, at least he wasn't in his sickbay garb any longer.

Trip smiled. "Dinner?"

Malcolm winced. "I'm not...", he said, trailing off at the end.

Trip dropped his smile. "It's all right," he said, lowering his voice. "Come with me. It'll be okay."

Malcolm nodded hesitantly, then followed Trip out into the corridor.

Malcolm saw a crewman approaching them from the opposite direction, and was relieved when the man passed them with barely a nod. Malcolm let out a rough breath.

"You okay?" Trip asked.

"Sorry," Malcolm said. "Feeling a bit nervous."

Trip nodded. "It must be weird."

"Yes," Malcolm replied, unsure of what to say.

Trip stopped walking and turned, facing him. "Listen, we don't have to do this. I can grab some food, meet you in your cabin."

Malcolm shook his head. "No. It's time things went back to normal." He started walking again, and Trip hustled to reach his side.

"Are you feeling normal, though?"

Malcolm glanced at his friend. "Why?"

"Because you're practically running down this hall."

Malcolm stopped in his tracks, staring at Trip, who was looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I am feeling...better, more grounded. But..."

"Yes?" asked Trip.

"Not normal, no," Malcolm said. "Blurry, lethargic..."

"From the illness?"

"Or from Phlox's treatments—I'm not sure." Malcolm started walking again, this time at a slower pace. "Nervous."

"That's understandable," Trip said as they reached the doors to the mess. "Ready?"

Malcolm raised one eyebrow, ala T'Pol. "I suppose so."

Triggering the doors, they entered. Malcolm looked around him—this late in the dinner hour, the place wasn't as crowded as usual, for which he was grateful. Moving to the serving line, he blindly chose the first items in the row, then turned towards the room, heart pounding. From a nearby table, he noticed Travis and Hoshi waving him over.

Trip stepped to his side. "You okay?"

Malcolm gave him a tight nod.

"Breathe, Malcolm," Trip said with a smile.

Malcolm exhaled. "Right. Thank you."

They joined Travis and Hoshi, and Malcolm was pleased to find that they treated him just as they used to, although there were the initial questions about his health, which he brushed off with his usual, "Fine," and some polite chatter. As the meal progressed, conversation ranged from recent movie nights to books to past first contacts, and he started to relax. Maybe I will be able to get my life back, he thought.

"So, when can you go back to work?" Travis asked, finishing off the last of his meal and beginning to gather his plates together.

Malcolm smiled. "I asked Phlox that that question this very morning. Another week or so, if all goes well."

After Hoshi and Travis had left the table, Trip leaned towards him. "So, you could be back on duty next week, maybe?"

"He's started lowering my doses already." Malcolm said, nodding. "He said that I first have to taper off the drugs, see if I remain stable. Then we'll know."

* * *

Malcolm woke in darkness. That was odd, he thought. He usually kept a light on, very dim, since his cabin had no exterior window. He must have forgotten before he went to bed.

Hearing shuffling from nearby, he tensed, then reached for the light. Someone grabbed his hand. He tried to jerk away, but felt someone pull him by the arm, through what felt like fabric, leaving a trail of blankets behind him. Malcolm stumbled and tried to strike out, but missed his attacker in the darkness.

A light flashed on, blinding him, and he heard shouts, voices. He squinted, almost blinded by the torch, and he saw a man looming over him, the light glinting off his horn, eyes wild. In a sudden movement, the man swung his arm down, striking Malcolm in the side, and then across his ribs. Malcolm felt a flash of pain, then a coldness where the man touched him. In shock, unable to hold himself up, Malcolm fell.

Malcolm felt warmth along his side, and he curled in around himself on the floor. Numb, he heard someone yelling, and watched the bustle of feet moving across his vision. Something was wrong.

Someone moved in front of him, and Malla's face filled his vision.

"Am I hurt?" he asked, surprised that his voice was so weak.

Malla nodded. "Someone attacked you while we were sleeping," she said. "One of the ill ones."

Malcolm could see that her eyes were scared; in fact she looked somewhat frantic. Oddly calm, he felt someone press something against his side, heard the buzz of voices swirling around him. There was movement behind Malla, but he couldn't make it out.

"I was on Enterprise," he said.

Malla looked at him strangely.

"How did I get back here?"

"You haven't left yet." She looked up as someone approached. That person knelt beside her, and Malcolm felt more pressure on his side. "We just got back from market a couple hours ago," she said.

Malcolm tried to nod, but closed his eyes instead. "I'm cold."

He could hear Malla's voice. "You're always cold." He heard her give a choked cry, and he tried to say that everything would be fine, but he heard another voice that sounded like Trip, calling his name, and he drifted, and dreamed of lights overhead, passing quickly, and Trip's face nearby, and one of Phlox's medics. He thought he heard the captain asking what had happened, then Trip saying he wasn't sure.

Malcolm closed his eyes. The streaking lights were making him dizzy.

The voices started coming clearer.

"We'd been supposed to meet for breakfast, but he was late." That was Trip, his accent strong, all broad vowels and hard "R's", like it got when he was upset. "When he didn't respond to his chime, I went in. He was standing there, struggling in the dark. By the time I reached him, he was on the floor, bleeding."

"Did he do this to himself?" That was the captain.

"I don't see how he could have." That was Trip again. "I didn't see a weapon. He was just, he was okay one minute, sorta, then the next, he was there, bleeding."

Malcolm heard doors open, and Phlox's voice. He lost track of the conversation, the words a jumble of sound, noise, and too loud, now. He felt himself tugged sharply and tried to struggle, to push hands away, to get them to stop the bother, because he was so tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He felt a pain so sharp that it made him gasp, and his eyes flashed open.

Trip was there, standing over him, his face a mask of concern.

He closed his eyes, and there was nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Something pulled, tugged, and Malcolm reached up, trying to push whatever it was away from his side.

"Shh..."

He opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light. Something was wrong. He tried to push again, and felt gentle hands on his arms.

"It's all right, lieutenant."

He stopped struggling and turned his head to the side to see Phlox there, medical dressing in hand. Sickbay, he realised. "What happened?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"It seems we may have been taking you off the drugs too quickly," Phlox said, his trademark grin missing. "We've made an adjustment in your dosage, and you should be feeling better soon." The doctor began to work at his side, and Malcolm felt pressure there. "We'll have to take a bit more time with it, hmm?" Phlox said, and Malcolm felt the world slide away.

* * *

He was...he was in sickbay, Malcolm thought slowly. That was the floor, sickbay's floor, below him, and he was sitting on a bed, staring down at the floor.

Rocking. He was rocking. He tried to stop.

Something was wrong.

He was rocking.

He gripped the edge of the bed, his arms rigid, and forced himself to stop rocking. He felt a tug at his side and let go of the bed, gasping against the sudden pain.

Was he hurt?

There was a voice.

He realised that someone was speaking, so he looked up. The captain was standing there, Trip beside him. Malcolm tried to concentrate. The captain was asking him something...something about a weapon.

"Where's the weapon?" the captain asked, and Malcolm jumped at the change, the sudden clarity.

"Weapon?" he asked.

The captain said something else, but he didn't understand it. He watched as the captain turned a frustrated look to Trip.

Trip took a step forward, and asked, "Did you do this to yourself?"

"Do what?"

"Hurt yourself."

Malcolm tried to think, and he started seeing flashes—a man, and blood, and lights, and sickbay, and...He started shaking his head vehemently. "No, no, no," he said, heart beating madly. He felt someone come up beside him, a pressure on his neck, a hand on his back, and he couldn't help it, he closed his eyes.

* * *

He remembered the attack.

Opening his eyes, Malcolm took in the lights along the ceiling; they seemed to hover over his bed in sickbay, casting their pale glow across the blanket that someone had pulled over him. The lights were dimmer than usual—Phlox must have lowered them while he was sleeping.

He remembered the attack, every detail.

Carefully, gingerly, he pushed himself to sitting, trying not to disturb the bandages on his side. He felt...not fine. Numb, he felt numb.

A thought came, unbidden: maybe he did this to himself.

No, no, that wasn't possible. He closed his eyes, thinking through the details—the attack, Malla there, then the questions from the captain, from Trip.

If Trip thought it possible, then...

No.

He sat there a moment, eyes still closed. He tried to stop thinking about it, but found it hard to control the path of his thoughts.

Maybe he did this to himself.

But how? He was better, so how had this happened?

No, it wasn't possible. The man was real. The attack was real. So that meant that this, here, now, wasn't.

He felt...drugged.

Phlox had probably upped his meds again, but he felt different this time from when he'd first gone on them. He felt flat now, distant, like he was looking at himself from the outside.

Numb.

Unreal.

Dead, he felt dead.

He'd almost liked it better when he was flicking between realities. At least then he could feel.

Opening his eyes and staring down at his hand, he pinched his arm to see if he could feel it. Then he raked his nails along the skin there, raising red welts.

This isn't working, he thought. He looked around sickbay for something sharper. Remembering Phlox's scalpels in a drawer, he slipped off the bed, bobbling a bit, then shuffled over to the drawer in question. Opening it, he reached inside and removed a knife. He returned to the bed and sat on top of the blankets, legs crossed, and he peeled back the protective packaging on the instrument, revealing the scalpel. Lifting it, he placed it against the skin of his inner arm. Then he applied a bit of pressure. Seeing blood well, he moved the knife away.

"Malcolm, what are you doing?"

His head shot up and he saw Trip frozen there in the doorway.

Malcolm nodded at his friend and said, "Testing."

Trip took a slow, careful step inside. "Malcolm, put down the knife."

Malcolm did so.

Trip moved faster now. Reaching the bed, he took the knife in hand. Keeping a wary eye on Malcolm, he yelled out, "Phlox?"

Malcolm heard bustling from across the room, in the direction of Phlox's living quarters. Then the doctor came out, all smiles. He turned serious as he took in the scene and Trip summarised what he'd seen.

Phlox took the knife from Trip and put it aside. Malcolm watched calmly as the doctor checked the wound and cleaned it, only looking away from the doctor's activities when he heard Trip's voice.

"What were you doing?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Checking."

Trip frowned, his brow wrinkling. "Checking what?"

"If I could feel it."

Phlox pulled Trip aside, and Malcolm stared down at the small bandage the doctor had applied. He could hear them talking. He began to pick at the edge of the dressing, trying to pull it away. He had almost raised one corner when he saw a hand cover his own, stopping its movement, and he looked up to see Trip there again.

"You're going to be okay," Trip said, his eyes showing his worry despite the calm of his voice. "Phlox needs to make another adjustment to your meds."

"Will that make all this real?" Malcolm asked.

Trip looked at him strangely, then nodded.

Malcolm smiled. "Good."


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm laid his outfit out on his desk, checking yet again to be sure he had everything he'd need. He was going back on duty tomorrow and he was actually rather nervous; it had been some time since he'd worn the uniform. He patted down a seam, then stepped back to inspect for wrinkles.

After Phlox had stabilised his meds, his symptoms had slowly abated. He'd tapered off the drugs, this time without a problem, although Phlox had then made him wait a full two weeks, med free, as an evaluation period before the doctor had cleared him for duty.

Malcolm moved to his closet and removed his boots and a small, black bag. He sat on the floor, pulled his polishing supplies from the bag, and began to work on the boots.

Even now, he was expected to continue daily sessions with the doctor—not quite therapy, more of a, "How's your sanity level today?" meeting, just to make sure that everything was still balanced.

Mid-buff, his hand froze. He still couldn't quite believe that all that had been in his mind, an after-effect of an illness. It had all seemed so real while he was there, and he couldn't imagine that he'd deliberately hurt himself...at least, he didn't think that he could have...he tried to shake the moment off, and kept working. He knew that he'd always wonder. Worse, he suspected that he'd always be on edge, a bit, wondering if he'd slip back.

Best not to think about it, just go on as normal. He snickered, giving his boots a final rub. Normal was a lovely thing.

His chime went, and he stood and triggered the door. Trip stood there, bottle in hand.

"Can I come in?"

Malcolm nodded and moved aside, allowing his friend to pass.

Trip smiled when he saw the boots, then the uniform. "Have time for a drink?"

Malcolm frowned, thinking about Phlox's warnings against alcohol and the like so soon in his recovery. "I can't..."

Trip nodded, twisting the bottle so that Malcolm could read the label. "It's iced tea, from home," he said. "I've been saving it up. Figured your going back on duty deserved a bit of a celebration."

Malcolm smiled, appreciating the gesture. "Thank you."

Trip nodded and sat on the bed while Malcolm moved to the lav, returning with two glasses. He joined Trip on the bed, facing him, and Trip poured the drinks.

Trip raised his glass in a toast. "To tomorrow—may things go well for you on your first day back."

Malcolm nodded, clicking his glass against Trip's. "And may my first day back not drive me insane."

Trip looked at him for a moment, as if trying to check his seriousness, then laughed. "Yeah, yeah," he said. Then he peered at Malcolm. "Hey. Tell me about that place."

"Which place?" Malcolm replied.

"Where you'd go, when..." Trip pointed to his own head.

Malcolm nodded. "Ah," he said, and took a sip. "It felt quite real," he said. Still seems, he reflected. Then he shook his head, cutting off that line of thought. Aloud, he continued. "I was thinking that it was somewhat like an alternate city—an alternate Boston."

"Hunh?" Trip said, puzzled.

"You know, an old city, old enough to have a past, to have layers; to have ghosts. In this case, though, some people can see those ghosts—old buildings, now gone; people that existed...places...gone, but in a way, still there." Not sure that Trip understood, he continued. "Like when you say I disappeared. I was there, but it was as if I'd become a ghost. People didn't see me, or didn't recognise me. It was like I'd become no one."

Trip nodded slowly, then he frowned. "Do you still see it?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Not any more."

Trip leaned forward. "Don't think this question is weird, okay?" When Malcolm nodded, Trip lowered his voice. "Do you think it was real?"

Malcolm hesitated, swirling the liquid in his glass, staring down at it to buy himself some time to think. Because when he did let himself think about it, and really remember, he...no, no, best not to go down that route.

Not wanting to mention his own doubts, he replied, "Phlox said..."

"I know what Phlox thinks," Trip said, interrupting him. Malcolm's head shot up and their gazes locked. "What do you think?"

Malcolm took a slow, careful breath; he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. "I'm...not sure. It was so real. But it can't have been, right?" He looked to Trip for...something, agreement, perhaps.

Instead, in a quiet voice, Trip asked, "What about the attack?"

Almost frantically, Malcolm said, "I still can't believe I..." He shook his head, calming himself purposefully. "I don't believe I did that to myself. It's odd. That's not me."

Trip nodded. "That's what I was thinking." The two friends stared at each other a moment. Then Trip continued. "We never found a weapon, and I didn't see you use one. You were simply struggling there a moment, then you fell, bleeding."

Malcolm nodded, then looked away. "I'd been sleeping, and..." He shook his head, and closed his eyes against the memory. In a whisper, he said, "But Phlox said..."

"I know what Phlox said," Trip replied, also whispering. "I'm just...I mean, weirder things have happened out here, right?"

Malcolm opened his eyes, staring at his friend.

Trip rolled the glass of tea between his hands. Then he gave Malcolm a thoughtful smile. "After all, Phlox said that the wounds could have been self-inflicted."

Malcolm gave a slight nod.

"But I asked him, and he also said that they didn't have to have been—nothing about the angle, or the..." Trip shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "I mean, the illness may have caused a chemical imbalance and all that, sure, but maybe that imbalance allowed you to see into this...other place; to go there, in a way." Trip took a sip from his drink. "Just because we all couldn't see it, that doesn't mean it wasn't real."

Malcolm simply nodded, unable to speak. All this time, he'd been trying to convince himself that that other place had been hallucination...all this time, he'd thought that Trip saw him as mad, but now...

Trip leaned forward. "You okay? I didn't mean to mess you up or anything, but..."

"No, no. It's all right," Malcolm replied in a rush. He shook his head. "I just..." He cut himself off with a sigh. "After the attack, you'd asked me if I had done it myself. And I remember later, with the scalpel." He glanced away a moment. "I thought that was related."

"The scalpel thing was the meds, Malcolm," Trip said quietly. "From the initial adjustment after the attack. Phlox said..."

Malcolm spoke over him. "I've been working with Phlox, and trying so hard to see that all this was in my head, but..."

Trip nodded. "Yeah. But..." he said, emphasising the second word. He slid forward, closing the distance between them, his hands tightly clasped around the glass. "Are you okay talking about this?" At Malcolm's answering nod, he went on. "Because I did some research—took some time, but last night I found some info, not much, but some, on the "ghosts" that our guide had mentioned—you remember him? Seems Adva has a history of stories that involve ghost sightings, but not ghosts like we think of them—more like real people, there for a moment, then gone, barely seen, barely remembered. Also rumours of people disappearing, coming back changed," he said, looking pointedly at Malcolm. "Coming back crazy." He smiled, but there was no amusement there. "They neglected to mention this to Phlox or the captain when you disappeared, or while Phlox was diagnosing your illness."

Malcolm nodded, thoughtful. "Perhaps they didn't believe the stories."

Trip shrugged. "Maybe." He took a sip from his glass. "I told Phlox about my theory, but he didn't buy it."

Trip kept talking, describing his conversation with the doctor, but Malcolm's mind wandered. He stared down at his glass. Maybe he wasn't mad, he thought. Maybe all that he'd almost been convinced had been illusion, had actually been real. He noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. He felt a touch on his arm and looked up to see Trip, a concerned expression in his eyes.

"Sorry," Trip said. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I just thought you should know."

Malcolm nodded, looking away again, down at his glass. He was grateful, he thought. Shaken, but grateful.

"Wait," Trip asked suddenly. "Why Boston?"

Malcolm's head shot up and he simply stared at Trip, confused.

"The place," Trip said. "You said it was like an 'alternate Boston.' Alternate, sure I get, but I mean, why not someplace like New York, or Tokyo, or London, for goodness sakes? Aren't you British?"

"Ah. Yes," Malcolm said, realising that Trip was trying to bring the conversation back to safer ground. Or, somewhat safer ground, anyway. "Hmm...I'm not sure. At the time, remember, not all my synapses were firing in the right directions." He smiled slightly. "It's simply the connection I made at the time." He shrugged. "I suppose there was something about Boston that reminded me—have you never been?"

"Boston?" Trip shook his head.

"The place has a feel to it—like London, a sense of history, secret places; but smaller, more intimate than London. The place I went, it had that kind of feel."

Trip smiled. "I'm glad you're back."

Malcolm laughed. "So am I."

* * *

Malcolm walked quickly, padd in hand, lost in thought. He passed several crewmen in the crowded hall, then felt a tug at his arm. Looking in that direction, he saw Trip there, seeming concerned.

"You okay?" Trip asked, sotto voice, pulling him to the side of the corridor.

Malcolm, surprised, answered, "Yes."

"Who are you talking to?" Trip asked.

Malcolm, at first confused, smiled when he realised to what Trip had been referring. "No one. I was reviewing the duty roster in my head, and must have been talking to myself."

"You sure?" Trip asked, still looking worried.

"Yes, sorry," Malcolm said lightly. Seeing the fright in his friend's eyes, he softened his tone. "Really, I'm fine."

"Okay," Trip said, obviously unconvinced.

Malcolm grabbed Trip's arm, and said, "I did want to say thank you, though."

"For what?"

"For being there whilst I was..." Malcolm waved his hand in the air vaguely, then shrugged. Then he smiled. "And for believing in me, at least enough to..." Lost for words, he shrugged again. "Anyway, thank you."

"You're welcome," Trip said, all seriousness. "You'll tell me if you ever..." As a crewman passed close by, Trip dropped his voice. "Um, 'go to Boston', as it were."

"Yes, absolutely," Malcolm replied, matching his friend's tone. "You'll be the first to know."

* * *

The bit of song Malcolm sings in an earlier chapter is "Mirror in the Bathroom", I think by the Beat, or the English Beat as they were known in some places. Or were they General Public by that point?


End file.
